Paris morning, late summer. The traffic sounds from the street, coming in the open window. The klaxons of impatient drivers have their own kind of language – the tiny taps, almost like a polite cough, the short, bright ones, like a greeting, short double ones, like a willingness to converse, and long plangent ones with a lugubrious and deeply felt frustration behind them, a deep annoyance at all that impedes their forward progress.
The sunlight drawls and hesitates, comes out to play, and then is pulled apart like loose wool, by the tribes of clouds, some thin and indistinct, others deep and massing, biblical and serious. So that both sighs and laughter travel across the sky.
The leaves of the chestnut trees are crimped around the edges with a glorious burnt russet shade, which make the little pale green spiked balls of the chestnut covers, stand out against the dark green and russet gold of the leaves. Other trees, that look like elm, have glints of yellow gold like lodged sunlight, little unexpected flickers of light among the smooth and patterned greenness of their leaves.
My days are also flecked with light and shade, patterns drift and freeze and waver across the polished wooden floor, and over the books I'm reading, lying there.
“Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura....” (Dante)
“Mauro lui avait dit la vérité. Rome était inondée de soleil.” - (Ornela Vorpsi)
“[to] feel for a moment free of the shadow falling between the idea - or word – and the thing itself” (Harriet Rubin)
“sunlight through stained glass
fragrance of oranges”
“Heart, since you embraced the mysteries,
you have become useless for anything else” – (Rumi)
A red rose seller walking down the avenue d'Ivry wears a red jacket with a red hood.
The leafy metal of the balcony is art nouveau. Its shadow is art insolite.